despite my
best attempts at
collecting the
random sparrow
feathers and
ear wax to form
a perfect escape
i keep getting
distracted by
shiny bits
only to barter
away my precious
stash of waxen wings
for pieces of
someone else’s dream
now all i have is
a collection of
unmatched doos
with zero dads
in a clusterfuck
of interwoven
sorrows plucked
on the flatlined
crusty cardiogram
attached to the
corpse of creativity

i mutter
it is what it is
an awful lot
for someone
uncertain at best
what really is
in the myriad
of unpossibilities
winking in and out
just at the edge
of my worsening vision